Tending the Garden
by Victoria M
Summary: Illya goes undercover at an English country house.


_**Tending the Garden**_

by Victoria Martin

In canon, Illya quotes Kipling, Shakespeare and a fair chunk of Masefield, so I like to think he's well-versed in English poetry. He also always seems to get the undercover jobs that involve manual labour. Take these two facts, add a country house setting and voila!

Warnings: No angst, no hurt and no sex

Act One   
"_Lady Felicity in the Breakfast Room with the Teapot"_

"Felicity, dear," said Lady Dalrymple to her niece at breakfast, "Did you know that new gardener of yours is Russian?"

"Really?" said Lady Felicity Hargreaves. "How interesting."

"And he's terribly well-read. I realised he was Russian when I heard him quoting Chekhov, but he's just as well up on the Bard."

"Really? How interesting," said Lady Felicity. "Have another cup of tea, Aunt Amelia, that one must be cold by now."

"Why thank you, dear. I really should stop talking and concentrate on my breakfast, shouldn't I? Have you noticed how blue his eyes are?"

"Whose?"

"The gardener's, of course."

"Oh, the _gardener's,_" said Lady Felicity, in a tone that indicated she wouldn't dream of noticing what colour a gardener's eyes were.

"He's really terribly good looking, but he talks to himself, so I daresay he's not quite right in the head, poor boy, such a waste, though of course it would be just as much of a shame if he were grotesquely ugly, like the Rector, poor dear man, though his sermons are very good."

"What, the gardener's?"

"No dear, the Rector's. He's awfully fair for a Slav, though of course some of those people do look very Aryan. The Nazis used to take away children like that and give them to German families, you know. I worked for a committee that reunited them with their real parents after the war. Heart-breaking work. Most of the time the children didn't remember their original families, poor things."

"Yes, yes, it must have been terrible," said Lady Felicity.

"I wonder if that happened to him?" said Lady Dalrymple thoughtfully. "Or perhaps he's a Russian prince in exile. How absolutely sick-making to know your ancestral lands were in the hands of the Bolsheviks. The poor man must suffer terribly."

"Or perhaps he's a Russian spy," said Lady Felicity, pouring the tea.

"Do you think so, dear? - No, no sugar thank you, I really must watch my weight – I do hope not. It would be so much more romantic to have your lawns mowed by a prince than some dreary KGB bod."

"Well, as long he mows them in a straight line he can be the leader of the Politburo for all I care," said her niece. "Higgins used to wiggle about in the most frightful fashion."

Act Two  
"_Mr Smith in the Rose Garden with the Insecticide"_

Illya was hip-deep in lavender spraying the roses, when he saw Lady Dalrymple approach through the herb garden. In spite of the prospect of having his hind legs talked off, he was pleased. Lady Dalrymple was a kindly old lady, if a bit dotty.

"Oh dear!" she exclaimed as she came up to him. "Rose, thou art sick!"

"No invisible worms, though," said Illya. "Just a bad case of greenfly."

Her ladyship's eyes twinkled in delight. "My goodness me, a fellow Blake fancier!! How terribly well-read of you. For a humble gardener, I mean." She looked at him slyly from beneath her floral hat and then tapped the side of her nose. "Do you know," she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "I don't think you really are a gardener."

"Oh?" said Illya, alarmed. "What am I then?"

"Well, I was talking about you with my niece this morning and she thinks you're a Russian prince in exile."

Illya glanced quickly over his shoulder, then beckoned her ladyship closer to him. "Don't tell anyone," he breathed into her ear, "but Lady Felicity is quite correct."

Lady Dalrymple squealed with delight. "Oh, I knew it!" she exclaimed, "How fearfully jolly! So why exactly are you here, Mr – er – Smith? Are you trying to restore your family's honour?"

"How clever of you to have guessed," said Illya. He adopted an aristocratically haughty expression – borrowed, if truth be told, from Lady Felicity – and allowed his accent to become thicker. "Of course, the Bolsheviks nationalized all our property in Russia, but we still have several great estates in Western Europe. I am the rightful heir to them, but Count Lemsky is keeping me from my inheritance. He has the papers proving my descent, but he claims my entire family was killed during the Revolution and that I am an impostor, I, Nikolai Illych Romanov!"

"Oh, how terrible!" breathed Lady Dalrymple, her eyes shining. "Not that nice Count Lemsky who's staying here as Peter's guest? He always seemed so charming. And he's such a good shot!"

"I knew you would not believe me," said Illya with Russian melancholy. "Lemsky has bought his way into favour with all the noble houses of Europe, but he is an upstart, a nobody, and one day I will prove that I am the true heir of the house of Romanov!" He clicked his heels together and bowed. Lady Dalrymple was quite bowled over by so much continental exoticism, and seized his hand.

"Of course I believe you, your Highness! And now you're following Lemsky looking for your chance to get those papers back! How can I help?"

"Oh no," said Illya chivalrously, "I could not possibly involve a lady in so dangerous an enterprise."

"Goodness me, you're not planning to cosh poor Mr Lemsky on the head, I hope? Even if he is a cad?"

"I would not dream of indulging in anything so vulgar as physical violence," said Illya. "Anyway, the so-called Count is keeping his private papers in his Lordship's safe while he's staying here. I don't suppose you know the number?"

Lady Dalrymple beamed at him. "Why of course I could find out!" she said cheerfully. "Peter has the most terrible memory, he leaves himself little notes all over the place reminding him when he has shooting engagements and which reading he's supposed to do at mass, he decided he'd better not rely on his memory after he read "And in those days there went forth a decree from Caesar Augustus" on Palm Sunday, the Rector was terribly upset, poor soul, I shall have a look in his bureau drawers this afternoon."

"Such nobility of heart!" said Illya, when he had untangled the syntax and realised her Ladyship wasn't planning to raid the Rectory. "Such courage! Are you sure you are not Russian? I shall be pulling duckweed out of the pond for the next few days, so you can bring the combination down there when you've found it."

"Oh dear me, no!" said Lady Dalrymple firmly, "I shall come with you when you break into the safe. I wouldn't miss it for the world. And besides," she added cunningly, "I couldn't possibly justify allowing a stranger to go through Peter's private papers."

Illya couldn't think of a satisfactory counter-argument, so instead he struck a noble attitude and said "Very well, but it may be dangerous. Count Lemsky carries a gun."

"Well, of course he does, dear. He's here for the grouse-shooting. Oh, that reminds me, we'd better carry out this criminal enterprise tonight. My nephew is coming to join the shoot tomorrow morning and he would be terribly shocked if he found me consorting with the likes of you."

She bestowed upon Illya her twinkliest smile and hurried off down the path, looking for all the world like a mobile potato dumpling, if dumplings were not only soft and round, but also slightly out of breath.

Act Three  
"_Lady Dalrymple in the Study with the Gun"_

That evening, when most of the ladies had retired to bed, and Count Lemsky and Lord Hargreaves were drinking whisky in the billiard room, Prince Romanov and Lady Dalrymple crept into his Lordship's study, finding their way only by the yellow August moonlight that fell through the casement windows. Her Ladyship proved to have done sterling work in uncovering the combination, and after one false start, when the numbers on the first piece of paper she tried turned out to be the disposition of the beaters for the morning's shoot, they had the door open in no time. Illya reached into the safe and was rifling through the contents, trying to find the list of Lemsky's Thrush contacts, when Lady Dalrymple shouted "Now!" and the overhead light snapped on. Illya spun round and found himself looking down the barrel of a gun.

"I'm afraid you have the advantage of me, sir," he began, still in character as Romanov, when his captor said "Illya! What the hell are you doing here? You're supposed to be in Stockholm."

"Why do I hear this every time I get sent to Stockholm?" said Illya sourly. "What are _you_ doing here, Napoleon? You're supposed to be on holiday. And please stop pointing that gun at me."

"I am on holiday," said Napoleon with a grin, "I'm here for a peaceful bit of grouse-shooting with relatives. I see you've already met my Aunt Amy. Aunt Amy, this is Illya Kuryakin, UNCLE agent and renowned safecracker."

"Oh dear, have I put my foot in it again?" said Lady Dalrymple ruefully. "I knew he was a spy when he went along with that ridiculous story I fed him about exiled princes, but I didn't realise he was one of yours."

"Don't worry, Aunt A," said Napoleon cheerfully. "He seems to have got what he came for, so we can send him packing and no harm done." He went over to one of the study windows and opened it wide. "It's a lovely moonlit night, your Highness," he said, "so you should have no trouble finding your way to the nearest station. It's about seven miles thataway."

"The Solo family tree would appear to be even more convoluted than that of the Romanovs," said Illya, climbing through the window. Then he stuck his head back into the room. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Lady Dalrymple. Are you coming with me, Napoleon, or will you stay and bear the brunt of Lemsky's wrath when he finds his papers are gone?"

Napoleon groaned. "So much for a peaceful English holiday. All right, we'll take my car. So long, Aunt Amy, I'm afraid duty calls. See you in New York sometime." He gave his aunt a kiss and clambered out of the window after Illya.

Lady Dalrymple listened to the roar of the car's engine in the night, and smiled fondly. "Such admirable young men. I suppose it isn't fair to have favourites, all the books say it's terribly bad for the children, but really, Napoleon does seem so much more a Son of Martha than Felicity. Oh dear, I suppose now Peter will need a new gardener. I wonder if he could find one who knows Kipling?

"Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made  
By singing:--"Oh, how beautiful!" and sitting in the shade,  
While better men than we go out and start their working lives  
At grubbing weeds from gravel-paths with broken dinner-knives."

And off she went to bed.


End file.
